


It's Enough You Look At Me That Way

by BristlingBassoon



Series: When we met, you'd never expect this [1]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Drunken Kissing, Dry Humping, First Time, Frottage, Hangover, M/M, Sharing a Bed, Winters being oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27513238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BristlingBassoon/pseuds/BristlingBassoon
Summary: If there was one word to describe the kisses Dick Winters has had so far, it was this: pleasant. All positive, no confusion, no lingering ill-feelings. Two mouths meeting lightly and neatly and then the girl laughs and moves on.The kiss that Nixon gave him last night was anything but pleasant. It was abject and crude and sloppy and rushed, and he can’t stop thinking about it.
Relationships: Lewis Nixon/Richard Winters
Series: When we met, you'd never expect this [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2023108
Comments: 5
Kudos: 58





	It's Enough You Look At Me That Way

It’s an absolutely foul night in Austria, rain dumping down out of the sky, when Major Winters is interrupted from his reports by a knock at the door.

“Sir,” says Malarkey, soaked, leaning on the doorframe, hair hair plastered to his forehead. “It’s Nixon, sir.”

“What about him?” says Winters, but he takes his hand away from the typewriter all the same.

“Sir,” Malarkey continues, looking absolutely exhausted. “We’re going to need you to come and get him.” He swallows. “We’ve tried, but we can’t get him to leave the bar, and the bartender’s getting real antsy.”

Winters sighs, and pulls on his coat.

——————-

10 minutes later, he’s walking into the bar, pretty much saturated. It doesn’t take too long to spot Nix. He’s not so much propping up the bar as giving it a beating. There are ten glasses in front of him. Some upset, one smashed. With alarm, Winters spots the blood on Lew’s hand.

“Lew, you’re bleeding,” he murmurs.

“One more - come on!” snarls Lew in the direction of the bartender. “Eins!”

The bartender lets out a torrent of German, of which Winters can only understand one word. At the end of the bar, he can see Webster wincing.

“Nix,” ventures Winters, coming up to his friend and putting a hand on his arm.

Nixon shrugs him off. “Nix, come on, I think it’s time you were in bed.”

“Can’t someone get me one more for the road?” he wheedles.

Some of the men in the bar look entertained by this show of drunken soddery, others look at Nixon with some degree of pity. The men in Easy look tense. Malark shifts uncomfortably in the corner of the room. Webster edges along the bar and Bull comes forward.

“Sir, do you want us to carry him out?” he says under his breath.

“The bartender’s threatening us with a lifetime ban,” adds Webster. “Says he’s had it with these drunken Americans in his bar.” He remonstrates with the bartender for a minute. “I told him there’s no one else around to buy his drinks, and he’s not happy about that either.”

Dick looks steadily at the angry bartender. He’s an old guy, probably a veteran of the first war. Not much of a threat to them but Dick has a principle of spreading good will and manners whenever possible, and has no interest in pissing him off.

“Ask him what Nix owes him.”

Webster passes this on, and Dick puts the necessary coins on the counter.

“Come on Lew, it’s time for bed,” he says firmly, putting his arm around his friend and trying to steer him away from the bar.

“Ah come on,” slurs Lew, but the fight appears to have gone out of him. He lets Dick lead him from the room, and stumbles in tandem out into the rain.

He’s heavy in Dick’s arms, a leaden weight dragging at his side. From time to time he mumbles something Dick can’t hear over the rain. Dick feels every drop of the icy water, but Lew doesn’t seem to notice it drenching him.

—————-

Finally, they’re at the billet, and Dick lumps Lew over the threshold, and more or less drags him upstairs. He plonks him down on a chair.

He’s a sorry fucking sight, that’s for sure. Slumped down, and beginning to shiver. Dick gets one of the thin, raggedy towels from beside the washbasin, and starts trying to dry Lew off. First, rubbing the towel over Lew’s hair, then wiping it over his slackened face as Lew grumbles.

This won’t do. The towel is barely making a difference, and even if Lew’s just down to being damp from the neck up, the dead weight of the saturated clothes won’t be doing him much good. If Doc Roe were here, he’d be warning the drunken soldier of the dangers of pneumonia.

“Lew!”

Lewis lifts his head. “Wha’ is it…?”

“Lew, you need to take off your jacket at least so I can get you drier.”

“‘M FINE like this,” Lew says loudly.

“Nix,” continues Dick with a warning tone. “Jacket. Off. Now.”

“Leamme alone…”

Dick sighs. It doesn’t feel right to manhandle Lew like this but there’s no other way. He ignores his friend’s protests and begins removing garments. It’s hard going. Lew doesn’t want to move his arms, the metal buttons are catching in the heavy sodden fabric, everything’s ten times heavier. After struggling for a good ten minutes or so, Lew’s down to his t shirt, which is wet in patches, but at least partially dry. It’ll have to do.

Dick reaches for a blanket - scratchy, woollen, a few moth holes, but better than freezing, and drapes it over Lew’s damp shoulders. Lew mutters something at Dick that he doesn’t quite catch.

“What was that?” Dick says, as he bends to try and take off Lew’s boots. The laces are stiff between his frozen fingers.

“I SAID,” repeats Lew, “I said - yeah I said, if ya were gonna undress me ya shoulda got me a couple of drinks first.”

Ah, another classic Nix drunken quip. Usually he can tolerate them but tonight he’s just tired of them. Dick finally wrenches the boots free and hurls them aside in frustration. How long is he going to have to keep doing this?

He takes off his own damp outer layers with considerably more efficiency and grabs another blanket. It’s an utterly horrible greyish pink colour, but once it’s around him he starts to thaw.

Nixon is slumped in front of him, but he’s not snoring. He’s following Dick’s movements around the room with slow, lethargic movements of his dark eyes.

“Nix,” Dick says, sitting down heavily on the bed. “Why do you keep doing this?”

“I like it,” Nix replies. “It’s fun. Ya should try it some time.”

“Fun?” repeats Dick. “It doesn’t look like a lot of fun to me.”

“Oh I dunno. I mean the world’s shit, what else are ya gonna do? Read field manuals and polish ya bible?” He snorts contemptuously.

“Nix,” tries Dick again, slowly, seriously. “Is this about the divorce?”

“What?”

“You’re unhappy.”

“Am I?” says Nix belligerently.

“Well from where I’m sitting you don’t exactly look like a bucket of sunshine.”

Nix snorts again. “Nah, Dick, it’s not about the divorce.”

Dick raises one of his eyebrows.

“Really, I’m not fucking sad about the divorce. Fuck her. And yeah, writing all those letters to the families was fucking horrible, and in the plane I was shit scared that I was gonna die and what the fuck had I done wi’ my life but who the fuck doesn’t feel like that these days…”

“I’m sorry Lew,” Dick replies. He puts a hand on his friend’s knee, which feels heavy and cold.

“Yeah well I’m fuckin’ sorry too. But it’s not about that.”

“So it _is_ about the divorce then? Christ, Nix.’

Nix glares at him. “It’s not the divorce, it’s the marriage.” A deep breath, something like a sob. “I shouldna married her. Not cause she’s a bitch, I mean she is, not cause I wasn’t ever fucking there, tho I wasn’t, it’s cause I never liked being married.”

“So you married the wrong person,” Dick says slowly. “That’s no good, Lew, I’m sorry.”

Nix looks down at his friend’s hand on his knee, and begins to shift uncomfortably in his seat. Taking the hint, Dick withdraws his hand, only to find it snatched back, and squeezed in Lew’s grip, like some kind of domineering handshake. For a drunk guy he’s surprisingly strong.

Dick looks away from Lew’s firm hand on his and is confronted by a sudden searching look, as if his friend were drunkenly looking right into his soul. Surely, he has nothing to hide, his inner self is quiet and clean and washed, linen on a line, but something about that look -

It’s unsettling.

“Dick, you really don’t fuckin’ get it do you?”

“No, Lew, I’m afraid I don’t follow…”

“I drink all the time because I’m unhappy, and I’m unhappy because I drink.”

“That’s not a real answer.”

“Fine! Fuck it -“

Then before he knows it, Lewis Nixon has grabbed him by the blanket and pulled him forwards almost onto his lap, and his hands are on Dick’s shoulders, on Dick’s neck, in his hair, and Lewis Nixon is kissing him.

His mouth is hot and sloppy and tastes bitter and medicinal, which Dick supposes must be whiskey, and his tongue is searching Dick’s lips and brushing against Dick’s teeth as Dick parts his mouth in surprise. His eyes widen. There’s an answering dark fervour in Lew’s gaze. As Lewis pushes his mouth to his, Dick feels a sudden rush of heat to his groin. It’s as startling as plummeting and being jerked back by a chute, and the dizziness and disorientation and fear and excitement that follows -

Then Lewis overbalances and falls off the chair, thankfully in the direction of the bed rather than the floor, but he’s still a heavy bundle of limbs and swearing. Trembling, trying to keep his mind clean and focussed, Dick extracts himself from beneath Lew’s leaden arm and fumbling hands, and rolls his buddy on his side, knee tipped up to stop him from rolling back. There. At least he won’t snore. He rearranges the blanket and hears a drowsy mumble from Nixon, but by the time he’s rightened the chair, Nix has fallen asleep.

A tiredness seeps into Dick’s bones, a deep weary exhaustion he never feels outside of the front line. The kind you get when panic subsides, and the body fails you. He’s barely gotten his own boots off before he’s sleeping himself, slumped beside Nix, his cold, damp back against Nix’s own.

——————-

When Dick wakes up, his hand has gone numb, trapped underneath Lewis - and he aches. He struggles out from under the blanket.

Lewis’ arm is dangling over the side of the bed, and his face, in sleep, has slackened. Truth be told, he doesn’t look very good. Tired, puffy, dried drool on his cheek. Dick sees Lewis’ future as a sad old soak, drinking out of a paper bag, and a shiver runs up him.

He goes to tuck Lew in, and notices that his undershirt has lifted slightly, exposing a pale sliver of back. The vulnerability of it strikes Dick - a chink in Lewis’ armour. He gently pulls the shirt down, covering his friend, and goes outside to try and clear his head.

Thankfully the weather is on best behaviour today. Beautiful sun, that clear, bright alpine sun that makes Dick imagine being a toggenberg goat, leaping up ridges and eating fresh herbs. A world with predators, yes, but one without war. Seems nice.

He carefully shuts doors in his mind as he walks through the town. He turns off the path where the streets become fields, and walks along the verges. Beautiful flowers here, and the vestiges of wild strawberry plants, their leaves perfect miniatures of their domestic cousins.

The fresh clean air makes him feel coloured-in again. He pauses and stretches. He’s midway through noticing the call of a bird - a creaking, crackling noise, some kind of pheasant or partridge? - when with a dizzying rush he recalls Nixon’s behaviour the night before.

The bar, that was typical enough. The swearing, the grumpiness, the drunken antisociality, it wasn’t something you always saw - Nix could usually hold the drink better than that, but not so much lately. But the other thing - the, uh -

Dick pats his face as if to check that it was all there, and touches his mouth, trying to reckon with it all. As he moves his hand away from his face, he sees beads of dried blood spotted across the back of it. There’s something crusted on his face too, and when he scratches at it, he comes away with dull reddish powder under his fingernails.

Right. He’d forgotten that Nix had cut himself. The blood must have gotten on his face when he, he…

So it wasn’t a sick dream, cooked up by an overtired mind. Nixon really had been that fresh with him.

Hah! Fresh. That was a word. As if he were a girl and Nix a boy too keen on necking. It’d be funny, if it hadn’t been so…so…

Concerning.

Has Nix finally cracked?

He imagines finding the doc and telling him that Nix had lost it, but the thought of having to sit down in front of Doc Roe and explain exactly _how_ one of Doc’s superiors had lost it…

Right. He can’t tell anyone about this. It probably doesn’t mean anything anyway, what with Nix being drunk and all.

The sun continues to shine on him, oblivious to his dilemma, but the warmth has stopped reaching him.

———————-

After another 15 minutes walking, two things strike Dick.

One, Nix is still in his room and is going to be waking up soon, and even if it’s not as bad as needing someone there so he doesn’t choke on his own vomit, he’ll need to be fed and watered at the very least. Dick isn’t interested in punishing him for that - the pounding headache and nausea of the hangovers he’s observed in other people seem unpleasant enough, without having someone giving you crap about your drunken, stupid behaviour. If there’s one thing Nix doesn’t lack, it’s self awareness.

The other thing is that Dick and Nix have arrived at some kind of truth.

An awkward truth, maybe even an unpleasant one, but Nix has, in his own way, just told Dick why he keeps drinking, and if Dick ignores that - if Dick pretends the whole incident never happened, pretends it’s just a regular old night for good old Lewis Nixon the battalion drunk, then maybe Nix won’t ever be able to stop. The bandage has been ripped off the wound, and it’s better to clean it than let it fester. Even if it hurts.

Dick turns on his heel and walks back through the village. He tries to think of something Nix can stomach, and picks up some bread at the bakery. It’s the black kind that they eat round here, but it’s probably a safer bet for a poisoned stomach than cheese or sausage.

When he gets back to his room, his friend is just beginning to wake. Not to mince words, but he looks fucking awful. His hair is plastered to his head with sweat, and as the door opens he shifts slightly and groans like a wounded man.

Dick runs him a glass of water, and brings it over.

“Go away,” groans Nix, as Dick sits down on the bed.

“It’s my room, Nix,” Dick reminds him. “Here, drink this.”

Lew makes a face but accepts the glass of water and sips at it, awkwardly propped on one elbow.

“God, my head’s fucking splitting.”

“Do you know where you are, Lew?” Dick begins in a careful tone.

“I’m guessing I’m in Major Dick Winters’ bed,” Nix ventures, “having been pulled away from the bar by my favourite seventh-day adventist. Don’t bother with a lecture on the,” he sips his water, grimaces again, “on the ills of the demon drink, there’s a man in my head with a splitting axe who’s doing it already.”

“I’m not going to bother telling you to stop drinking,” Dick says in a tight tone. “You already know that.”

“Well what was so important that you had to start yammering at me first thing in the fucking morning then?”

“Lew, it’s 10 am.”

“Don’t fucking care,” growls Nix, the proverbial bear with a sore head.

“Lew,” Dick says. He feels a tight sensation in his face, in his throat. He’s not sure if it’s disgust, and if so, which parts of the night before he’s disgusted about. Maybe it’s just the sorry sight of a guy who keeps knowingly poisoning himself, long after it stops being fun.

Lew flops back down on the bed again and stares at the ceiling, before his eyes slide shut. Dick takes a deep breath. It’d be a lot easier to just…say nothing, he thinks again. Lew’s definitely in no mood for conversation. But no, it’s now or never.

“Were you about to tell me something?” Lew grumbles. “Or are you going to leave me in peace?”

“Lew,” Dick begins again, twisting his hands in his lap. He looks over at Nixon’s prone form and is glad to see that Nix still has his eyes closed and definitely hasn’t noticed how flushed he’s getting. “When I got you back home last night…I asked you why you kept drinking.”

“And?” says Lew, frustrated.

“And then,” says Dick, feeling his voice grow smaller and tighter. A real effort to get the words out. “And then - uh - “ He tries for a levity in tone. “And then you kissed me.”

Lew’s eyes snap open, and he blanches. Pure white. The kind of colour they all had in Bastogne, but this time it’s not the cold.

Then he rolls over and faces the wall, hunched into himself.

“I’m -“

His voice is strained. Frightened, even. Dick’s never heard him show that kind of fear before, not even when he’s been shot at. 

“Dick, I’m sorry. I’m real sorry I did that.”

Dick sighs. Well, he’s ripped the bandage off, that’s for sure. Now, what is he going to do about the wound?

He pats Lew on the shoulder, only to feel him tense, and shrink away.

“You kissed me,” he repeats again.

Now Nix has turned again, and is looking at Dick with frightened eyes. “Dick, are you - are you going to report me?”

Should he? He knows it’s not allowed, that it can lead to a deterioration in morale among the men. Especially if Nix is in power over them, he could corrupt them. Could be compromised. The war may be over, but they’re still working for Uncle Sam, still have access to his plans and manoeuvres.

Dick sighs again. It feels a heavy burden, holding a man’s fate in his hands. Even heavier than a gun.

“No, Lew,” he says eventually. “I’m not going to report you.”

Lew heaves a shuddering breath.

“Do you want to hit me then?”

“No,” he says tiredly. ‘I don’t want to hit you.”

“Well then what?” Lew demands.

“I don’t know!” Dick yells, exasperated. “Jesus christ, Lew - just - I have to think about it.”

“You have to think about it.”

“Yeah, Lew, I have to think about it. Look - I’m going to have something to eat. I’m going to have a shower, and another walk, and then - god, maybe at some point we can try and figure out what we’re going to do about all of your problems, but it’s been a long night of me wondering if you were going to puke on my floor and I’m exhausted, I’m fucking tired, Lew. In fact, I’m a bit tired of you right now.”

Lew looks hurt, but nods.

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Here.” Dick waves to the black loaf on the table. “Bread, if you get hungry.” He drags over a bucket. “Bucket, if you want to throw up.” He gestures to the typewriter. “Typewriter, if you want to write my reports for me. Right. I’ll be back later. You can leave if you want - and god, maybe it’s better if you do,” he says sternly, “but if I catch you back in any kind of bar you’re in more trouble than you can imagine.”

Lew swallows. “Thanks, Dick.”

———————

A couple of hours later, on his second walk, Dick forces himself to think about Nixon’s problem. Well, there are two problems. The drinking - that’s all up to Nix himself. But the kiss? That’s a whole other matter.

If there was one word to describe the kisses Dick Winters has had so far, it was this: pleasant. You swing a pretty girl in a print dress around at the officer’s dance, her lips meet yours, her joy lights up the space around you, and it’s nice. A grateful Dutch girl grabs you and kisses you when you’re moving through the town during Operation Market Garden, and you’re not thinking much about the kiss because you’re preoccupied with the intelligence you’ve received from the Dutch resistance, but the kiss itself isn’t bad. A female friend at the school dance back in Lancaster, a girl in a college sweater at a party, a land army girl in England. All positive, no confusion, no lingering ill-feelings. Two mouths meeting lightly and neatly and then the girl laughs and moves on. You feel the glow of attention, the delight of someone’s adoration upon you, however brief. It’s pleasant.

The kiss that Nixon gave him last night was anything but pleasant. It was abject and crude and sloppy and rushed, and he can’t stop thinking about it.

Nor can he stop thinking about that sudden, shocking sensation that came upon him, what Dick now realises could be called arousal, or perhaps desire. It had never happened before, not from a kiss, and on reflection, he wasn’t sure why. Why now, and why not then?

Usually he would solve this with study, but Dick isn’t sure there’s a book on this, at least not one that would be easy to find. Given this, the most sensible way to solve this problem would be to return to the source. Talk to Nix and find out what the hell is going on, for a start. He should have sobered up by now.

—————-

When he returns to his room, Nix isn’t there. He sighs, and tries to turn his attention to his reports, but he can’t help noticing the towel on the floor, and the tangle of blankets lying where Nix has shucked them off, and the bucket - thankfully empty - and the way the loaf of bread has a fist-sized chunk torn off it.

He’s thankfully interrupted by Malark, coming in to see if Nix was around for a round of cards, oh, and did Nix survive the night, haha - but through the joking Dick can see some genuine concern on Malarkey’s face.

Then Malarkey leaves and it’s Lipton who comes up to see him, discussing the general welfare of the men. Always was a caring sort, was Lipton. He’s worried about the men who don’t have enough points and won’t be home to see their families.

“And you, sir?” he says quietly. “How you holding up?”

“I’m doing just fine, Lip, thanks for asking.” He grins in a way he hopes is reassuring.

“How’s Captain Nixon doing?”

_Why do you ask,_ thinks Dick, but knows if he says this it will raise more questions. “He had a bit of a rough night last night,” Dick says carefully, “but I’m sure he’s just fine now.” _Wherever he is._

Lip looks unconvinced.

The thought occurs to Dick that maybe he should just tell him. He wonders what Lipton would do, and for some reason imagines Lip bringing him warm milk and platitudes. He almost giggles.

“What’s that, sir?” Lipton frowns.

“Oh, nothing,” Dick replies. Lip turns to go.

“Oh - um, before you head out,” Dick says, hoping he’s sounding casual, “I thought I’d ask you something.”

“Sir?”

“I want you to be honest. What do the men think of Nixon?”

Lipton looks confused. “Well, they like him, sir. Think he’s a good officer.” He furrows his brow. “Between you and me, I think he could ease up on the drinking, but he’s solid. Why?”

Dick tries to keep his voice light. “Nobody’s ever had an issue with him or come forward about him being inappropriate?”

Lip stares at him. “How do you mean, sir?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Dick tries again. “Just, the men like to talk. I know they all thought I was a Quaker, and we all heard stories about Speirs.” He swallows. “So I was just wondering, if there were any, uh, rumours about Captain Nixon.”

“Not as far as I’m aware, sir.”

Dick gives Lip what he hopes will be a steady look.

“If there are, I’d like the chance to talk to him directly, see what’s going on.”

Lip nods. “No, never heard anything, sir. Maybe something about a fist fight, or him cheating at cards.” He chuckles. “Luz said he shit in Lieutenant Dike’s helmet but I’m 100% sure that was a joke.”

Dick allows himself to grin at this. “Right. Well, thank you Lip. Now, why don’t you go out and enjoy some of that sun, before the next torrential storm? I’d join you, but I’ve got a hell of a lot of paperwork to get through.”

Lip nods, salutes, and leaves the room.

Dick is serious about the paperwork, but he can’t concentrate on any of it, and his e key has developed a jam. He bashes the side of the typewriter a few times with the flat of his hand, but the percussive maintenance has little effect. Damn it. Either he’ll have to get a new typewriter or he’ll have to try unscrewing the various bits. Or writing all the es by hand in pencil. Why in god’s name couldn’t it have been the x key, he’d only need it to type “XO” or when mentioning Captain Nixon -

He pushes back from the desk in his chair and gets up. Nix has got his own room. It’s a small town. Why the fuck is he sitting here, waiting for Nix to come, when it can’t take too long to find him?

—————————-

Nix isn’t outside. He’s not sitting on the wall where the men smoke, just Webster sharing cigarettes with German soldier, the mood between them seemingly good-natured. It’s bizarre, considering how much effort they would have gone to to kill each other just weeks before.

With a sinking feeling, he walks towards the gasthof, but Nix isn’t among the men sitting in the biergarten, nor is he inside with the heavier drinkers. He remembers Webster telling him that the drinking culture in Germany is different - more of a beer with a meal kind of place - and that Nix just doesn’t fit in. Not that most of the Germans are lining up for any kind of bonhomie with a drunken, surly paratrooper. It’s just the lighter hearts among the men - intellectually minded Webster, Luz, with his jokes, Shifty, with that Southern hospitality - who are able to see the man behind the uniform, and won’t say no to shooting the shit with a German. Some of the men have even gone out looking for girls - German, Austrian, whoever’s got blonde hair and ready smile. A week ago, Dick would have assumed Nix would be among the skirt chasers, but now? Well. He’s obviously not the type.

A few other options. At the post office. Walking into a German home and snatching the alcohol from under some frau’s disapproving glare. Going for a walk isn’t likely, Nix never seems to need to clear his head like Dick does.

He heads over to the requisitioned building at the other side of town, where Nix is staying with some of the other officers. It’s more luxurious than his own billet, but Dick had wanted to be near Easy. Turns out his own place was a lot closer to the bar, too, and damned if he was going to drag Nix up the hill in the rain last night.

It’s surprisingly steep, and he feels himself breathing heavily by the time he’s there. Should get into more PT, he reminds himself, but there’s always all those _fucking_ reports.

He tries the handle and the door swings open.

The building is furnished with a lot more home comforts than Dick has come to expect, but Christ, it’s ugly. A lot of dark, artless paintings of dead game. Tassels on everything. A painted stein with a cavalry motif, a hideous giant vase filled with dead flowers, and a stuffed black bird the size of a turkey, its tail flared as if in rage at the indignity of its position above the mantel. There are weird wooden plaques too, with blackletter mottoes on them. Probably the Nazi version of “God Bless This Home”, he guesses.

Lots of books. Goethe, some translated Dickens, the ubiquitous copy of Mein Kampf.

He turns without looking and runs into a small half-moon table, swearing loudly as the spindly thing gracefully flies through the air, dispersing ornaments and correspondence as it goes.

Pain spikes through his shin.

“Dick?”

He hears footsteps and looks up to see Nix standing in the doorway.

“Ah, just the man I - ” Dick grits his teeth, the bruise from the table bizarrely hurting more than the time he got shot. “Just the man I wanted to see.” He gives up trying to right the table and lets it fall back to the floor. “Christ, why are there so many tiny fucking tables in here?”

“Money doesn’t buy you taste,” Nix says. “I should know, my parents certainly don’t have any.”

He looks almost normal, colour back in his face, the drool and blood and sorriness all washed away. Same old Nix as always, Dick would have said, if there weren’t a certain tension in the man’s eyes.

“So,” Nix says, sitting down on a sofa in a particularly grotesque shade of liver brown. “How’d the thinking go?” He looks pointedly at a set of cut glass decanters Dick hasn’t noticed until now. “I’d ask if I’m gonna need a drink to hear this, but I think I’ve had enough Dick Winters disapproval for one day, so I guess I’m going to have to hear whatever you’re going to say sober.”

“You make me sound like a killjoy,” Dick says.

“Well,” sighs Nix. “You’re right, but it doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”

Dick still hasn’t sat down. He finds himself pacing, awkwardly weaving a track between all the pointless dust-collecting furniture. Pace. Drinks cart. Pace. Player piano. Pace. Footstool. Pace. Fire screen.

“You’re making me dizzy,” complains Nixon.

Dick turns and tries to pick the least awful of the chairs. Ah, they’re all awful. That button-studded leather one, it’ll have to do. He sits down, but despite planting his feet firmly on the floor, he can’t stop his hands fidgeting, pulling out horsehair from a rent in the leather.

“You’re not going to spit it out, are you?” Nix sighs. “Fine. I guess I’m gonna have to quiz you.”

Dick waves his hand in miserable assent. “Ask whatever you want.”

Lew gets up and pours himself a couple of inches of some brown liquor. “Can’t believe I’m resorting to cognac.” He gives Dick a challenging look, thick eyebrows set.

“Lew, I thought about it,” Dick says finally.

“And?” Lew demands.

“And - and I don’t know!” He can feel himself getting flustered. “I’ve got no idea what it means, Lew. No fucking idea at all.”

“Right.” Lew slumps down on the sofa, putting one leg over the sofa arm. “Dick, I’ll start with this. Do you like girls?”

Like. It occurs to Dick that it’s a funny way to put it.

“They’re nice enough,” Dick says. “I’ve found many of them to be quite friendly.”

Nix raises an eyebrow. “Do you want to sleep with them?”

Dick colours.

“Do girls make you hard?”

“Lew!” groans Dick, embarrassed. “What is this, a police interview?”

“What kind of police interviews are _you_ attending?” Lew says, taking a sip from his glass and wincing.

Dick sits in silence for a few minutes, toying with the horsehair. Nix swings a leg and kicks the side of the sofa.

“Dick, do you even _get_ hard? How can you not know what you like?”

“I don’t know!” says Dick again. He swallows. “Can you pour me some of that?”

“Really?” says Lew, but reaches over and pushes his own glass onto a marble-topped table, where it skitters across the surface and comes to a halt at Dick’s knee. He clutches at the glass, takes a mouthful and splutters, coughing. It tastes awful, like something someone’s stubbed a cigarette in.

Dick forces himself to look Lewis in the eyes, and tries, once more, to begin.

“I always thought it was duty.”

“Duty?” Lew laughs at this. The humour lights him up, and he looks almost like the Lewis Nixon Dick met three years ago, except right now it isn’t three years ago, and Lewis Nixon’s asking Dick about his sex life, and Dick wants to fall directly into the floor.

“You find a pleasant girl, you marry, you have children. And the, uh, the arousal, that’s so you can perform.”

“You - you can’t really mean that,” says Lew, shaking with laughter. “That’s priceless, even for you.” He grabs for the glass, which Dick leans over and hands back. “Christ, what a way to talk about getting hard. God, Dick Winters, have you ever so much as jerked off?”

“Well, uh, yeah,” Dick mumbles. “But it’s a release. Purely physical. The body does something, you touch it, it does something else, it goes away. Either that or I go for a swim.”

“A swim!?”

Well, it had seemed normal to him before, but the way Lew was saying it, it was as if Dick had told him he’d spent three years in ballet school.

“Dick, I don’t think you _have_ thought about it.”

“Yes I have,” he says defensively.

“I’m not convinced. Most guys at your age tend to have a much better idea. They’re certainly not worried about duty, that’s for sure.” A chuckle from Lew, thankfully without malice. “Well, now’s the time, Dick. Think about it now.” Lew settles himself in on the sofa, swings another leg over the arm. “I’m just gonna have a nap while you do that.”

He’s not sure if Nix is actually sleeping, but his face is turned away. He gets up, paces again. Takes another sip of that horrible drink. Looks out of the window at the grey street. Fiddles with the beer stein until Nix tells him to knock it off, and has he got ants in his pants.

“I’m thinking, Lew!” he snaps back.

“Think more quietly then.”

He forces himself to stand still while he watches the jackdaws. Forces himself to think about men and women.

He always thought it was like baseball. Something most guys enjoyed, a couple hated, and a few really loved. Degrees of interest. He didn’t love baseball, didn’t follow the teams and collect the cards and tune the radio to it, but he liked it just fine, could join in a game if he had to, and have fun with it.

But apparently he’d had completely the wrong analogy this whole time, if Lew’s reaction was anything to go by.

“Hey Dick,” calls Nix, his voice muffled against the back of the sofa. “What about guys?”

It takes him a moment to realise what Nix is asking, and he can feel himself going scarlet. He spins around, alarmed. Nix has turned, and is looking at him intently now.

“Ah, it’s fine. All the other guys are out, doing some mission exercise or something, I don’t know. Doc apparently told Sink I had the flu and couldn’t be there. I’ll have to send him a bunch of flowers later.”

What _about_ guys?

He turns and plonks himself back down on the chair. Now, instead of the fidgeting, his body feels numb, and it’s just his mind whirring. He’s not sure how long he sits there, staring at the pattern in the marble. Maybe ten seconds, maybe ten minutes.

“You ever do anything?” Nix asks quietly.

“No,” Dick mumbles. “But sometimes, it felt…special.”

“Special? You gonna elaborate on that?”

That feeling when you’ve made a good friend, thinks Dick, and you want to be close to him all the time. When you’re studying in the library and you look up and you’re struck by a guy’s easy smile, his handsome face, the way his hair flops over when he leans over and asks you if you’ve got an extra pencil. An arm clapped around your shoulder, friendly warmth spreading through you. Hero worship, he might have called it. Good friends, other people would say. Was that normal, or, like the thing with girls, was it something different?

There was Ted, at high school. Then David, on the swim team. Kyle at the dorms. And now, the guy he feels the most special about is Lewis Nixon.

His foxhole buddy, the guy who hid bottles in his foot locker. A real smart-ass Yale rich boy, who talks too much shit and drinks too much, but fights with the best of them, would pull you out of any hole and never let you down. Special’s not a strong enough word for that.

“Lew,” he says, a little shakily. “I’m going for another walk.”

He scrambles to his feet, and sees a flash of anger in Nixon’s eyes.

“You running away from this shit, now?” Nix demands. He grabs at Dick’s sleeve, catches the edge of it, but loses grip as Dick pulls away.

“I’ll be back in 10 minutes,” Dick says, heart pounding. “Just going around the block.”

“Fine. I’ll be in my room.”

Before he can skirt around the furniture, Nix has already gotten up and thumped up the stairs. For want of something to do, Dick drinks the last mouthful of cognac, grimaces, and goes to get some fresh air.

———————

“Hey Lew?” Dick knocks quietly on Lew’s bedroom door. “You there?”

No answer, but the door suddenly bursts open, and there’s Nix, scowling. “You get all your thinking done, Major?”

Nix pushes him into the room and closes the door behind them. He plonks himself down on the edge of the bed, and Dick follows.

“Dick,” Lew begins, tiredly. “Maybe we better just drop all of this. I’m happy enough that you’re not going to report me. I know you probably think I’m disgusting, what with the drinking and the” he grimaces, “the sodomitical desires, and that’s fine enough, most guys here have some kind of bad streak in them, and it wouldn’t matter if you weren’t so fucking pure compared to the rest of us. Christ, you barely even jerk off. I’d wonder if you had a cock and balls if I hadn’t seen them already.” He shakes his head. “I just hope you can still see me as some kind of friend, at least until the war’s over.”

Dick feels a weird kind of anger at this.

“Christ, Lew, that’s not it.”

“Well what is it?”

“I didn’t want the 20 questions, but I’m not dropping it. I _said_ I needed to _think._ ”

“Yeah, well you know what _I_ think? I reckon you’re too stuck in your head.”

“Well I’ve thought about it, Lew. And you know what, you’re right.”

Lew stares at him with the oddest expression.

“I’m definitely too stuck in my head.” Dick meets Lew’s gaze as steadily as he can manage. “Do you remember anything about kissing me?”

“Not really.”

“That explains it.”

“Explains what? Goddamn it, spit it out, or hit me, or fuck me, I don’t care what, as long as it’s not going out for another fucking walk!” Lew then seems to realise what he’s just said, and whitens. “Oh forget - forget the thing about the fucking, I’m only joking.”

“Lew,” Dick says, feeling his face twitch as he tries to reach for a strength he isn’t sure he has. “I’ve thought about it.”

Oh god, has he thought about it. All of today, on and off. The meaning of that plummeting sensation. Whether arousal just means a body near his, or whether it means something else. What might even happen between two men, and whether he’d hate it, or whether it would just be as blandly acceptable as being with a woman who’s got her eyes closed and thoughts turned towards England.

Whether he might love Nixon, and whether it would hurt.

“And?” demands Lew, his jaw set.

“I’ve thought about it, and you know what?” He stares at Nixon, taking in his handsome face, the dark decisive brows, those dark eyes he might describe as beautiful. “I’d like to try it.”

A few dizzying moments pass, where time stops and he and Nix stay frozen, doing absolutely nothing. He can hear a little light birdsong outside, a shout of a passing soldier. He pauses to see if there’s any noises in the house, any signs of someone coming, but can’t hear so much as a creak.

Nix breaks the silence first.

“So,” he says quietly. “You know I’ve been carrying a torch for you?”

Dick feels hot. “Special,” he finds himself saying.

“Huh?”

“With guys. That’s what I meant. When I said I felt special.”

Nixon laughs. “Special. I’ll have to remember that one.” He looks at Dick through his long, dark lashes. “So, do you feel special about me then?”

“I think so,” Dick replies slowly.

“So…” Nix trails off. “What do you want to do about it then?”

Dick curses himself for not thinking about this even further. A single day wasn’t much thinking time, but why was that an issue? He didn’t usually have the luxury of even that much time. Quick decisions, decisive action, even when it came to matters of life and death. Especially those. 

But he had no training for this. He hadn’t read of it, had no basis of information on which to make his decisions. He was in fog, not able to see more than a few feet in front of him.

One step at a time.

“You could kiss me,” he finds himself saying. “I liked that.”

Nix laughs. “You did? Even though I was blind drunk and probably pissing my pants at the time?”

“Well, it was pretty horrible actually,” Dick admits. “You’re a terrible kisser. Never had anyone worse, but I still liked it.”

“Well thank god I don’t remember.”

“You didn’t piss your pants, by the way.”

“Thank heavens for small mercies.” Nix claps a hand on Dick’s shoulder. “We’re off to a great start. How’d you fancy another kiss with the worst kisser you’ve ever met?”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Dick mumbles, blushing. “I got kind of hard.”

“Kind of hard?” yelps Nix, delighted.

Dick nods.

“Well that’s not bad for the worst kisser in the world. Let’s see if we can upgrade that to fully hard, then.”

“If you say so,” Dick mumbles, and moves forward slightly, waiting. Lewis answers him with a hand on his cheek, dipping his mouth to meet his.

It’s warm and crushing and slightly alcoholic, and he can feel Lewis’ breath in his mouth, but this time he’s ready, and he finds his mouth moving in response. He feels a flush, a wave of excitement and shock that he’s actually being kissed by Lewis Nixon, and instead of the alarm he felt last night, this time it just feels…special.

Special, and exciting, and he’s so nervous he can hardly stand it, but Lew’s taking good care of him. He’s got his arms around Dick now, and Dick can feel the rise and fall of his chest, and Lew’s fingers entwined in his hair. Lew’s leg, hooking over his, Lew’s body, pressing to him, Lew, straddling him -

Oh god, it’s happening. The need, the physical.

Lew’s moving against him now, hips rocking, and his own arms move down Lew’s back and to his hips, and then one hand is on Lew’s ass. With shock, he realises there’s a hardness between them, and it has to be Lew’s cock, stiffening in his pants, and that the rush of heat within him is his own cock responding.

Lew breaks away for breath, looking at him, and in that moment, Dick knows he can’t wait a minute longer. He needs - oh god -

He grabs Lew’s head and now he’s the one doing the kissing. Hard, frantic, probably pretty terrible if he’s being honest with himself, but Lew makes a noise into his own mouth, and he feels like he’s about to explode. He tumbles back onto the bed and Lew falls down with him. The weight of him feels good, as does the press of his thigh between Dick’s legs, and the buck of his hips, the way he’s pushing himself at Dick like a man possessed. He can smell Lew’s hair, feel his breath on his neck. He can feel all of him.

He wants to own this.

“Dick,” gasps Lew, lips brushing against Dick’s jaw, breath tickling, “Dick, I -“

He stops mid-sentence as Dick reaches down and makes a grab for his ass, and moves beneath him, and now Lew’s cock is hard against his, driving at him, and, oh god, oh god, he can’t believe -

The hotness floods him again, and his mouth is open, grunting, whining, he can’t stop the noises coming from him, and he can’t stop moving, it’s too exciting, he wants more but he can’t stand to wait for it, and when Lew pushes a hand between them and begins fumbling with Dick’s fly, Dick pushes up into his palm and comes, heart pounding, his mind blank of anything but wanting.

For a moment they’re still, Dick’s pants half-open, Lew’s hand still crammed beneath them, and then Lew shifts, his cock still hard against Dick’s thigh.

“Oh god, let me just -“ Lew grunts, reaching for his own waistband. Dick catches his hand before he gets there, and entwines Lew’s slippery fingers in his own. Lew lets out a little noise, and guides Dick to finish him off, at first slowly, then frantically, gasping as he finishes.

Dick feels spacey. Lighter, somehow, as if he’s going to float off the bed and Lew’s weight on top of him is the only thing keeping him there.

“Christ, Dick,” Lew says, rolling free from him. He chuckles. “You sure move fast.”

When Dick speaks, his voice doesn’t seem to be coming from him.

“I never felt it would feel that way.”

He tries to think of how he’s feeling, but the thoughts aren’t there. It’s just Nix breathing, and nothing at all.

Nice, actually.

He turns his head to see Nix looking at him, a big, beautiful foolish grin spread across his face.

“Winters, you should see how you look right now.” Nix presses a scratchy kiss to his cheek. “You’re all pink.”

“I’ll try and be less pink next time,” Dick says dreamily. Nix reaches up and strokes his hair with the back of his hand.

“If I knew this was gonna be our first time, I would have tried to make it real nice,” Nix says. _Our_ first time, Dick notices him saying, and feels a giddy warmth. “I would have sucked your cock at least.”

Dick turns again, looking straight into Lewis’ big, brown eyes. He widens his own eyes in mock surprise. “People do that?”

Lewis snorts with laughter. “What rock have you been living under?”

Dick giggles. “I’m joking. Of course I’ve heard of it.” Although knowing about the concept of oral sex is one thing, the thought of Lew’s mouth on his cock is another.

“Oh, I was about to say you’d achieved some kind of miracle, what with hanging around the crudest sonsofbitches for three whole years and never once hearing about it.”

“Well, maybe next time,” Dick says, smiling. “But right now, I can’t say I’m dissatisfied.”

“Not such a terrible kisser after all, am I?” Lew says, nuzzling up next to him.

“No, you’re not, because now you’re not drunk.”

“Dick,” Lew says, “I know you don’t like me drinking, but I don’t regret it.”

“Yeah, I know.” He tries not to sound grouchy.

“Yeah, because -” Lew grunts, shifts, and slyly slips his hand in the direction of Dick’s crotch, giving him a squeeze. Dick yelps. “If I hadn’t been drinking, none of this ever would have happened.”

“You have a point,” Dick concedes. “But I worry about you.” He sighs. “Ok now that we’ve figured all this out, to a fashion, do you think you’ll stop skulking around being a miserable jerk?”

“Roses and sunshine every day, Major Winters,” Lew says cheekily, hooking one leg over and pulling Dick closer. “And every day, another salute.”

Ah, that’s the Lew he knows. The cheek. Just this time, it’s accompanied by the sensation of Lew’s cock pressed against his thigh.

“I’m glad,” Dick says fuzzily, feeling a wave of drowsiness suddenly hit him. So warm and comfortable, here in Nix’s bed with Nix beside him. “I’m glad we lived to know this.”

“So what do you want to do now?” Nix murmurs.

“I don’t know,” he replies, “I’ll have to think about it.”

Nix swats at him. “Your buddy tells you he’s in love with you and you get frisky and come on his leg and _then_ tell him you still have to think about it?”

“You’re in love with me? Is _that_ what you were saying?” Dick replies, watching Nix’s face change at first to horror, then to crossness, then finally amusement.

“You’re an infuriating bastard, you know that?”

“I’ve been told,” Dick says. “By you, mostly.” He settles, shifts a little, feels Nix against him. “But Lew, I _am_ going to have to think about how we’re going to fit together. What I’m going to do with you.”

“I see,” says Nix, sounding a little sad. “What _are_ you going to do with me then?”

“I don’t know,” continues Dick. “But I’ve got the rest of my life to find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> Maybe not the best title for this particular fic, but I was listening to London Grammar and it stuck with me (from the song "Everyone else knows".)


End file.
